


At The Beginning Of The Hour

by mikaylalwrites



Series: The Adventures Of The Fall Out Friends [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Chicago, Gen, Happy Ending, Minor Character Death, Musical Instruments, Original Characters - Freeform, Period-Typical Racism, Platonic Patrick Stump/Peter Wentz, Platonic Relationships, Post World War I, Rise to Fame, Some Humor, basically everyone's a factory worker, dance hall, everyone's poor, jazz band, lots and lots of working, pals being pals, patrick is an immigrant, patrick's parents are kinda disabled, side love thing that lasts 2 seconds, speakeasy, there's soft pal moments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15420402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikaylalwrites/pseuds/mikaylalwrites
Summary: It’s 1921. Patrick Stumph’s life consists of the same daily routine: work until he drops, sleep, repeat. The life of a factory worker can be far more dangerous than you might imagine. With himself and his parents to upkeep, anything different isn’t in the realm of possibility. That is, until his co-worker invites him to a mysterious address written on a slip of paper.Pete Wentz, Andy Hurley, and Joe Trohman have known each other for years. They were all close friends until Joe went to fight in The Great War. Since then, Pete and Andy haven’t spoken to nor seen him. That is until he waltzes into the speakeasy Pete and Andy have become regulars in. And with the man they had only met the day before. What a small world it truly is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you follow me on Twitter, you knew this was coming eventually. I haven't stopped talking about it. 
> 
> First of all, thank you for clicking on this. I'm proud of how it's turning out. In case you haven't noticed, Peterick/Joetrick/Any Ship isn't my style. Welcome to more Fall Out Friends. (More if you read Past The Limits, which is dead now.) 
> 
> Secondly, this was partially inspired by "I Have Forgiven  
> Jesus" by Das_velorene_Kind and SnitchesAndTalkers. Don't misinterpret that though, the literal only similarity is they're both set in the past (but not the same decade, theirs is the 1950s) and Joe went to war. Other than that, entirely my story. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

CHAPTER ONE  
Chicago, Illinois, 1921. 

Patrick Stumph has not yet woken up from his uninterrupted slumber. He's in a rather uncomfortable bed, in blue striped pajamas. The loud blaring sound of Patrick’s bedside alarm clock jolts him out of his dreams. He slams his hand on the blasted thing before rubbing his tired eyes. His hand throbs from hitting his alarm so hard. He swears one day he will end up throwing it against his bedroom wall. With a yawn and another rub of his eyes, Patrick is out of bed. He moves about his bedroom collecting his work clothes in his arms: a plain white t-shirt and Levi jeans.

Once he throws them on, it is a ten-minute hunt for his belt before he finishes the ensemble. His ill-fitting jeans plague him as he searches his pantry for a quick lunch to bring along to work. He opens his pantry in a hurry and grabs a slab of ham. Then he slaps it on the counter along with a partial loaf of bread and mustard. He slices his bread then put the sandwich together with all of it’s fix-ins, then shoves it in a lunch pail. He throws a snack in with the sandwich then snaps the pail shut. He sighs and pulls his cap off the hat rack before opening -- then slamming -- the front door. Although he is not the least bit cheerful, he hums a tune to boost his morale. He hurries down the steps of his cramped apartment building.

Patrick stops humming the minute he reaches the busy street. His voice has never been his favorite attribute. Although his parents are far too sweet and they tell him his voice is lovely. Men and women in business attire and other types of clothing rush past him. They seem to have an unquenchable thirst to get to wherever it is their destination is. Patrick assumes a leisurely pace. He takes the time to study the clear skies and take in it all. That is until a rude gentleman smacks him with his briefcase. He's muttering something about a lazy immigrant and being late. Patrick keeps his head down. He tries to keep in toe with the sidewalk traffic in front of him from that moment forward. His eyes land on the usual sight of smoke emitting from one of the chimneys of the canning factory. He peers through the steel gate with dejected eyes.

His train of thought lingers on the last machine accident. An elderly man by the name of Richard lost half of his hand in a meat grinder. The poor fellow had lost so much sleep. He was walking through a never-ending hallucination. Patrick shakes the discomfort welling in his stomach. He thinks of putting food on the table for his aging parents, yes, the ones who brought him to the land of opportunity. Or at least, they thought they had. He forces himself through the gate. The fear of getting hurt never quite goes away. His lunch pail smacks him on the leg as he enters the building. The smell of meat and sweat invades his senses. He slings his lunch pail into a cubby along the wall and heads to his work station. Patrick rubs his eyes for the third time that morning as he watches the cubed meat pass by him on a conveyor belt. He starts shoving meat into cans as they get moved along the line. Everyone is silent but the machines never stop talking. They click and clack all day every day and it’s enough to make a man lose his mind. Near the end of Patrick’s hell, a couple of words break through the loud sounds of machinery. One of Patrick’s numerous co-workers, Frank, whispers into his ear.

“Patrick,” he mumbles. Patrick listens in closely, Frank is not usually one for casual conversation. “There’s a spot downtown if you’d like to join me for a...minute of fun times. It will suit your fancy I imagine, being German.” Patrick notices that the man is speaking in code. Patrick nods as Frank slips him a piece of paper. He wonders what he means by bringing up his heritage. “The address.”

Neither man utters another word until the end of Patrick’s shift at 10 o’clock. Patrick's eyes blur with weariness. He makes his way out of the factory, scurrying like a frightened mouse. Once he reaches the cool late night air, Patrick takes a deep breath. The streets have cleared since the bustle of early morning traffic. Patrick slides the paper out of his pocket and reads the address. The passcode is “The mouse ran up the clock.” Be sure to arrive when the clock strikes the beginning of an hour----no later! Knock thrice.

Patrick lifts his wristwatch to his eyes, it reads a little bit past the 10 o’clock mark. Patrick sighs as he makes his way over to the address. He's wondering what this late night excursion may have in store for him. The street lights flicker above his head. He makes his way to this address in the near dark at a slow pace. His tired eyes threaten to drift shut. He will not have another opportunity to do this after daybreak tomorrow. A store hides the passage way. Patrick heads inside of it at a minute past 10:30. He slides down the brick wall to sit on the ground. Involuntarily, his eyes drift shut. Before he knows it, an unknown man shakes him awake.

As Patrick’s eyes re-adjust to the dim lighting of the store, the man pulls him upwards. Patrick gets a quick glance into the man’s warm honey colored eyes. Patrick lands onto his feet. He's unsteady for a moment. The man has dark poofy hair. Patrick sends him a warm smile. The man does not immediately return it. He steps forward to the well-concealed door in the corner. He knocks thrice then mutters something under his breath. Then he steps inside the long dark abyss. Patrick soon rushes inside as well. He bumps into a figure masked by a shadow along the wall. A haphazard “sorry” escapes Patrick’s lips as he follows the man down the dark passageway.

Patrick hears the sound of trumpets playing in the distance. He goes further inward and downward. He finally reaches the second door at the end of the hallway. He pushes the door open. It creaks the slightest bit. His eyes scan the room. Ladies and gentlemen of varying stages in adulthood sit at small tables around the room. A bar rests at the back, giggly men and women converse over flirty drinks. Two things connect in Patrick’s head as quick as a lightning strike.

One, everyone else is clad in far more elegant clothes than him. Two, the man he had met before was the only man of color to speak of in this place. Patrick makes his way to the back of the room. He feels awkward. In the room is the man from earlier and a bearded man talk over a pair of glasses. The honey-eyed man has a glass filled halfway with whiskey, the other man has a glass of Coke. Patrick gives a small wave to the man.

“I, uh, I’m Patrick,” he greets. The pair of men glance up at him. “Do you mind if I take a seat here?” The honey-eyed man moves to decline but the bearded man stops him with a wave.

“Of course,” he says. “Sit.” Patrick takes the seat across from them, trying to think of conversation to strike up.

“What is this place?” he asks with an amazed tone. The honey-eyed man lets out a hearty chuckle. It is boisterous yet charming.

“The name’s Pete and this-” Pete waves his hand around- “is a speakeasy, and one of the best in Chicago at that. I sure hope you like a good drink ‘cause this is the place to do it.” Pete has a wide smile. His large teeth glimmer in the golden lighting of the room. His smile soon falters then fades out. Patrick longs for it to form back on Pete's face as it fades. The bearded man locks eyes with Patrick and keeps them trained on him while he takes a sip of his Coke. Patrick grows uncomfortable. The bearded man's gaze holds as he puts his Coke back onto the table. Despite this, he keeps a small smile on his face. After a while of silence, the bearded man sips his Coke once more and swallows. His voice comes out several octaves higher than Patrick had anticipated.

“I'm Andy Hurley,” he says. He takes another sip of coke. “Which factory do you work at?” Patrick scans the room for Frank before returning his focus to the conversation at hand.

“The canning factory three streets over,” Patrick replies his mind somewhere else. Andy takes notice of this. “I put cubed meat into cans. A co-worker of mine, Frank, invited me here and-” Patrick trails off. Andy nods. Pete eyes him during a long sip of whiskey.

“Us too, we make the cans,” Pete says, mouth half-full of the brown liquid. He swallows. “Or watch them go down a conveyor really. About your buddy, er, Frank. Is he a lanky man, with grey hair and cracked glasses?” Patrick nods. Pete takes another swig of whiskey. Patrick glances at the half bottle next to his glass. “I saw him leave an hour ago, guess you're stuck with us.” Patrick shrugs. Patrick doesn’t dislike the idea of hanging out with the two strangers. He feels out of place without a drink in hand. Patrick motions to the bar at the other side of the room and stands up from the table. No one pays him any attention when he reaches the crowded bar. Men in business suits sit in on every stool. They laugh will colleagues or flappers dressed in simple clothing. The flappers have decided to entertain them with their sweet as sugar laughter. Patrick catches the barman’s attention with a shout. The barman rushes over, plasters on a smile as he listens to Patrick’s one-worded request, scotch. The barman walks to the storage cabinet with flair, pops open a bottle and pours a golden liquid on a glass of ice. He slides the glass into one of Patrick’s hands and the almost full bottle into the other. Utterly stupefied, Patrick returns to Pete and Andy’s table. He places his drink down, under the watchful eye of Andy Hurley. “Scotch?” Patrick nods. “Hmm.” Pete’s expression lets on that he has become lost in thought as Patrick takes his first sip of scotch. The bitter liquid tickles Patrick’s throat.

“So, Patrick, how long have you been in Chicago?” asks Andy with a raised brow. Patrick begins to question his every move. Patrick averts his eyes from Andy’s gaze. “You don’t seem like a native.” Patrick shakes his head.

“I’ve lived in the area for most of my life,” he corrects. Andy seems taken aback. Patrick takes a sip of scotch, then swallows. “But, if you have to know, I wasn’t born here, in Chicago. My parents came over from Germany when I was younger. They told me growing up that I had a better shot than they had back in Germany. They thought it was best-” He pauses, drifting his eyes to the mahogany wood table. “It appears they may have been mistaken.” Andy smiles.

“I don’t know anything about being an immigrant,” Andy admits, lifting his glass of Coke. “But, I can see that it surely isn’t the best life you can lead and I know quite a bit about being an outcast.” Patrick stares Andy up and down, considering what he could have meant by that. “Pete, he does too. You’d think the North would be more tolerant but hey, it’s humans we’re talking about. Not a soul takes kindly to the idea of interracial friendships usually. Let alone the love his parents shared. His father, Peter II, died a few summers ago, influenza caught him before the war could.” Patrick frowns. Pete seems like he has tuned out this conversation entirely. Patrick stops himself from grabbing his hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Andy turns to Pete and rubs his shoulder. “Pete, hey, are you all right?” Pete shrugs him off and nods, keeping his attention on anything else but Patrick and Andy. Patrick wants to say he’s sorry for Pete’s loss but doesn’t deem it appropriate so he refrains from doing so. Patrick takes another sip of scotch. Patrick tries to follow Pete’s eyes, to view what has captured his attention. Andy clears his throat, causing Patrick to shift his eyes towards Andy again. “How long have you been working at the cannery?”

“About a year,” answers Patrick in a sad tone, staring into his glass. “I never meant it to be this long. My parents….they, they can’t work anymore. And as I soon found out, no one in Chicago wants an immigrant to do anything. Some might give factory work or other unpleasant jobs. I- I hate the grind and smell of death, Andy. I don’t want to go to work one day and, and all of a sudden lose my hand. Then what? Starve?” Andy feels sympathy for Patrick, he lives with the same tiring pressure and fears. “I can’t imagine doing this for another twenty years. I’m twenty-seven, there has got to be more to life than this.”

Andy smiles a sad smile. “If anyone listened to me, there would be. I want to evoke a change but I guess wanting change gets you branded as a commie nowadays.” Patrick’s brain connects the dots. Yes, an outsider, one of political shunning rather than any other basis. “I can’t imagine wanting the population to break their backs for your buck. That is an evil I will never be able to understand.” Patrick sighs. His back aches thinking of decades more of leaving over a conveyor belt. Oh, he hopes to any god who will listen that this is not forever.

Later that evening, Patrick bids Andy and Pete adieu. He then heads out of the speakeasy through the dark passageway. He keeps his breath low and his thoughts minimal, just in case. He shut the door behind him with care as he entered the store again. Now that his eyes weren’t fuzzy from sleep, he could see that this was a family owned flower shop. Lilacs and daisies glimmered in the late night light. Patrick ran a finger with the most delicate of touches along one of the yellow tulips. He felt aglow as he walked out the store into the warm night outside. He hugged his arms to his chest to keep the warmth in. He kept a quick steady pace as he reached the middle of the downtown area. His eyes shifted about and his senses were on high alert. You always had to be on high alert at night. Nothing but the occasional car or pedestrian crossed Patrick’s line of vision. He frowned as he reached the front doorstep of his apartment building. With a small jingling sound, he pulled his keys out of his pocket then inserted them into the lock. He trudged up the stairs, fatigue once again catching up with his limbs. His body began to hang low as he hunched over with the weight of his body becoming a burden. For a split second, he considered not taking a ham sandwich to work tomorrow. He shook that idea away, he’d starve that way. He tested the lock to his front door, it opened with ease. He cursed under his breath at the idea he had left his poor parents in an unlocked home for the evening. He stepped inside, hoping he would not hear the worry and frustration in his mother’s weak voice. His hopes are crushed as his mother hobbled to meet him. She smacks him on the shoulder to the best of her ability.

“Patrick Martin Stumph where have you been?” she asks. Her tone laces with worry. Her ankle shakes as his ability to stand falters. Patrick eases her over to the couch. Patrick’s face almost contorts into a look of pity but he fights it off. “Rick, I thought- I was worried you had gotten hurt. I-” Patrick lays a careful but steady hand on his mother’s shoulder. He looks at her with pleading eyes.

“Mama, I didn’t mean to worry you. I only- well I-” Patrick paused, thinking of an excuse to tell his worried mother. She looked up at him expectantly. “My boss he- he wanted me to work overtime. Unpaid, mama, I’m very sorry. I would have used the telephone in his office but it’s rare we’re let in there and I didn’t feel like bothering him.” Patrick’s stomach tied itself into guilt-ridden knots as his mother flashed him a small smile. She squeezed his hand in a comforting way.

“I understand, Rick,” she reassures him. She rubs circles into his sweaty palms. “I wish you would have been able to contact me but I- I understand that sometimes you can’t. Don’t worry about it and I hope this doesn’t happen again.” Patrick brings her into a soft hug. She hugs back the slightest bit tighter and he notices. He whispers reassuring words into her hair as guilt makes him feel like vomiting. He sees the remains of tears in the sparkle in her eyes. He stands up from the couch, mumbling a goodnight to his mother that she returns to him with care. As he passes his sleeping father at the corner of the room, he bids him an unheard goodnight in place of an apology. He frowns at the frame-less mattress on the floor. One day, Dad, I'll be able to get you off the floor into a real bed, I promise, he tells himself. He continues walking into his bedroom. In the dim lighting, his eyes see black shapes. He feels around and grasps the firm comforter of his bed. He slips off his work shoes and socks and tosses them in a bin. He falls flat onto his bed and drifts of into a deep sleep before his head can hit the pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! i hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the last one.

Tuesday morning passes without many mishaps. Patrick is just as fatigued as he would be at any other start of a workday. His brow moistens with sweat from the body heat that circulates in the gargantuan room. Frank doesn’t mention his plans to meet up with Patrick at the downtown speakeasy for most of the morning. Despite this, Patrick’s mind lingers on why he had not waited for him to arrive. Patrick haphazardly drops meat into the approaching cans on the conveyor. The more Patrick works in this godforsaken place, the less he desires to eat anything out of a can ever again. If he cranes his neck the slightest bit, he can see thick, pink goo falling out of a meat processor. It looks like a string of taffy but in reality, it’s a well-pulverized mixture of varying parts of pigs. If only Patrick could afford the cleanly chopped pieces of tender steak in the butcher shops. He would very happily buy them. Unfortunately, it’s priced higher than he can afford on a day to day basis. He gets a few cents off the canned version by working his long days under crippling pressure. 

The slab of ham he takes for his lunches was a rare treat from Frank’s folks at Easter. His family called it a bit of Christian charity but Patrick called it a blessing he didn’t deserve. Patrick felt that he owed Frank after that. Frank remains steadily focused on putting meat into cans. Despite Patrick desire for answers, he doesn’t ask the questions. 

Towards midday, Patrick hears a large crash behind him. He turns around at the blink of an eye to investigate the scene. A mop of curly hair lies flat on the ground, trying to get up. Once their face comes into full view, their face turns bright red taking Patrick’s focus off his hair. The man has striking blue eyes that have a thin layer of guilt glossing them over at this moment. Patrick’s eyes fall upon the box of cans next to him, quite a few have fallen out and rolled across the concrete floor. Patrick leaves his workstation for a few seconds to assess the man on the floor. He crouches down to meet him at his eye-level. His feelings are somewhere between amusement and second-hand embarrassment. Patrick reaches out a hand, in the hopes of helping the guy up. With his manhood already partially damaged, he refuses Patrick’s hand. Patrick shrugs it off. The man pushes himself off the ground. Then he begins collecting the stray cans, only then does he accept Patrick’s help. Patrick is happy to help and does so immediately. Patrick moves about the room. He collects the ones that hit the wall and making sure none of them have been compromised. As soon as Patrick drops the last can into the man’s box, he nods and gives a quick thanks before scurrying off. Patrick has no idea what to say about the odd exchange. For some odd reason, Patrick feels a push to meet that man again, maybe to get t know him better. Patrick has no idea why he’s being drawn to a perfect stranger. 

Later that evening, after his shift, Patrick gets his wish. Walking out with a plain metal lunch pail and oversized overalls is none other than the man from earlier. Patrick tries to go about his business of meeting Andy and Pete back at the speakeasy. They had talked about that the day before but something in Patrick wants to delay that for a few moments. He runs to catch up with the curly haired man. At first, the man is surprised to ever have seen Patrick’s face again but he soon gives Patrick a warm smile. Patrick shoves his hands in his pockets to make this conversation feel closer to casual. “Hello, I don’t think I ever caught your name. I’m glad too, you know, have helped you earlier.” The man nods. 

“Yeah, thanks for that,” he says with a hint of embarrassment. He chuckles to swipe away the awkward silence hanging in the air. He crosses his feet. “I’m not usually that clumsy.” Patrick nods and waves his thanks away, claiming that it was no problem at all. “I’m Joe, Joe Trohman-” he laughs “-I didn’t mean to take that long to get to the point. Oh well, what’s your name, my knight in dirty work clothes?” Patrick lets out a hearty laugh at the joke but can’t seem to stop a blush from forming on his face. 

“Patrick Stumph,” he says, trying to regain the casual tone in his voice from earlier. He glances out to the road, considering on whether or not to invite Joe to the speakeasy. He seems charming enough and I’m sure Andy and Pete won’t mind it, Patrick decides. “Would you like to head off somewhere with me? It’s after work and I’d like it a lot if we carried on this talk- if that’s alright with you, of course. I wouldn’t, uh, want to make you feel forced to come.” 

Joe laughs at Patrick’s tendency to fumble over words and be unsure of how to go about these things. “Don’t worry about making a fool of yourself in front of me. I’m the factory clown. Gotta lighten the mood somehow. You don’t need to be nervous.. Where are we going?” Patrick considers how to phrase this in the most discreet way possible. Joe waits with his eyebrows raised. 

“We’re going to see a man about a dog,” Patrick answers. Joe’s face reflects the pure confusion he is feeling until it clicks. He makes an “o” shape with his lips, then nods. “So you’ll come with me?”

“I’m sure you’ll need help, uh, getting the rascal home,” Joe jokes. “It’ll be a real hoot to help you out. Let’s go!” Patrick chuckles softly at Joe’s enthusiasm before the pair head down the road. Patrick is sure to watch their back as they head further into the downtown area. Joe seems like a very lively person. He cracks the occasional joke as they walk. He lets out simple laughs at every one of Patrick’s attempts at matching Joe’s level of humor. Patrick isn't much of a comedian but he has his moments. Patrick feels a bit bad about not giving the man a genuine full body laugh. Joe seems to evoke one in Patrick with every joke he tells. Not all of Joe’s humor is not your usual parlor jokes. Some of it is a bit more on the abstract side, something only funny if you really think about it or visualize it. Nonetheless, Patrick is entirely amused and entranced. His way of getting light-hearted jokes across is interesting. This exchange continues well into the flower shop. Patrick stops laughing once they reach the threshold and takes a look at the wristwatch on his arm. The hands indicate that it is a few minutes to ten. Patrick takes Joe to the back of the flower shop, where the passageway to the speakeasy is located. They lean lazily against the wall waiting for the clock to strike ten. Patrick fights the urge to fall asleep again. Why are his hours so long? His singular day off is approaching. Every fiber of his being is anticipating the moment he can take a nap on his bed. No matter how uncomfortable it is, it’s his and that’s all that matters. 

The clock strikes ten. Patrick hurriedly heads up to the passageway door. He raps three times on the door, then he sees the shadow of the figure behind the door. “The mouse ran up the clock.” His voice raises several octaves unexpectedly. Patrick scolds himself for sounding nervous for the second time that day. The door swings open and Joe rushes in behind him. They both do their best to avoid crashing into the figure behind the door. Then they head down the long, dark hallway. Once they open the door at the end of the hall, the warm glow of the lights in the speakeasy shine through the hallway. Patrick allows himself to fully relax. The atmosphere is as warm and inviting as it ever was. Patrick is positively glowing once he spots Andy and Pete. He taps Joe lightly on the shoulder. “Over there!” He waves his hand towards the table in the back then takes hold of Joe’s hand as he rushes over. The guys look up to see Patrick and Joe. Pete’s eyes glow happily. 

“Joe Trohman? It sure has been a long time since I’ve seen you,” he announces in surprise. Patrick wasn’t aware these two knew each other. Patrick takes a seat next to Pete. “I didn’t know you were one for illegal activity.” Joe laughs and they interact as if they were old friends. “I’d guess after your service in the war to end all wars, you could use a drink, eh?” 

“Hm, I don’t know. I think I could use a whole lot more than a drink. Death is quite the downer, you know,” Joe mutters. Nothing he says is inherently spiteful. There’s something in his tone that screams that he does not remember his time in the war fondly. “Plus, that was a few years ago and I’ve had many drinks since then, it doesn’t erase anything.” Pete squeezes Joe’s hand in a comforting way. “I should have listened to you, not let those army posters talk me into it. Or the neighbor kids.” 

Pete sighs. “You thought you were going to be a hero, Joe. I tried to tell you that you shouldn’t fight for a country that has nothing to do with you. I guess I’m not willing to fight for any country. I couldn’t leave my mother here to fend for herself. You didn’t have much to lose and you were young. I guess you figured…” Patrick listens to their conversation carefully. He tries to play off his eavesdropping as if he was staring at a flapper across the room. 

“It doesn’t matter what I thought, Pete. Those kids treated you horribly and I went along with them to war. One thing I can say is that I enjoyed France more than home,” Joe muses. He takes a look around. “The men and women there don’t have to look to one of these places to get zozzled. They don’t treat black folks over there as badly as they do here. Especially not the way it is down south. Man, this whole country is a bit of a wet blanket. I’d like to go back to France, to live, not to fight.” Joe stands up. “One last time, I’m sorry for avoiding you for the last several years. I didn’t have a thing to say, or maybe I did. I don’t know.” Patrick follows him to the bar. Joe orders them both a bottle of whiskey and a glass. Patrick’s eyes dart around the room in a haphazard attempt to find anything of use to talk about. 

“So, Joe,” Patrick begins. Joe doesn’t take his eyes off the barman. “How do you know Pete?’ The barman slides the boys their drinks across the countertop. Joe taps lightly on his glass, deep in thought. He leans lazily against the bar as his eyes light up at far better memories. Then they return to a darker shade of blue. 

“Well,” he says. Patrick slides into the barstool directly to his left. “I was around twelve or thirteen and I had just moved from in from Ohio. Ohio’s a strange place because it feels like it should be in the south in some ways. It’s emptier than the Chicago area. You know what I mean. I started at a middle school somewhere around the poorer side of town, almost on the border of one the black neighborhoods. My house was a little ways from the school. One day instead of walking the usual route home, I decided to take the back way and explore a bit. The place didn’t look any dirtier than I was used to so I didn’t think a thing of it. Then, as I was about to cross through the end of an alleyway, there was a group. The group was made up of what looked like men in their mid-twenties. They were beating on a curly haired boy. I stopped dead in my tracks. The boy on the ground was no older than seventeen. Here were these supposedly mature, grown men kicking him around like a soccer ball. These men weren’t any plywood boards either, they had a bit of muscle. I couldn’t bring myself to leave the scene entirely. I ran back down the alleyway and hid behind one of the deteriorating couches on the curb. The men had no intentions of murder that day. About fifteen minutes later they came towards where I was hiding and scared me half to death. They didn’t see my smaller body because of the fluff, so I was able to get away scot-free. As soon as they left, I made a break for it down the alleyway. This was where the curly haired boy laid with shallow breaths. I learned his name in the next few minutes, Peter Wentz. Some part of me wanted to high-tail it home but I even then I had some heart for the guy. So I bent down on my little knees, a bit shaky, and met him face to face.”

Patrick looks to Pete at the back of the room, who is between sips of alcohol. Today’s pick is a cocktail; a rare sight for most men. Patrick flashes him an unseen smile. Andy appears to be raving to him about one thing or another. Joe takes a sip of whiskey and continues on with the story. “Blood trickled out of his nose like Niagara Falls. The sight was god-awful. I won’t detail his whole list of cuts and bruises. It busted my fantasy of the North, then and there. When I saw him up close is when I noticed why he was getting beat up. I thought people were for equality and love here, hmph. It’s better than the lynching and the words dealt down south, that’s for sure. I helped the fella up to the best of my ability, he didn’t weigh much so him leaning on me wasn’t too bad. He told me to take him home, which was half a block from where I went to school. We hobbled all the way there, just the two of us. The look on his mother’s face when we reached the door felt like a ton of bricks. She thanked me with all her heart for getting him there. We’ve been close ever since.” They sat in silence for a few moments. Joe sips his beverage and Patrick lets every word burn through his throat like the alcohol in his hands. If he dared to sip it now. 

Patrick organizes his thoughts. “You fought in the great war.” Patrick meant this as a question but the answer was already confirmed in his mind. Joe stopped moving. His glass an inch away from his lips. “Why?” 

Joe stared down into his glass. Patrick was finally able to focus on the music during the pause in the conversation. It was a simple classical song, no lyrics to elicit any sort of thought except how much you’d like to know what it means. Patrick is not quite sure what to do with himself. By now it has become clear to him that Joe has no intentions of answering his question. Perhaps it was too straightforward, Patrick says to himself. He scolds himself for prying too much. “Sorry for asking. I didn’t mean to come off as if I deserved to know.” Joe nods, a soft smile spreading across his lips. Patrick moves away from the bar. While heading back to Andy and Pete’s table, a warm body collides with the pudge of his stomach. Patrick falls back into a neighboring table at the impact. His back throbs a little but it is apparent that he is not actually injured. The patrons at the table he collides with grumble lightly. He pushes himself back up into a steady standing position. He locks eyes with the force that had catapulted him into the table, a young flapper. Her lips are soft like tulips. Her smile is sweet like a lollipop and her eyes seem genuinely sorry as an apology leaves her lips. She pouts after the words leave her lips.

She holds out a thin hand to him. Her fingers are painted a champagne color that matches her outfit. Patrick takes her hand and his breath fades away. Her words are small, brisk, and low spoken. Despite this, Patrick can hear the twang of a southern accent with every syllable. Her dress is an inch or two lower than most ladies in the room, ending just above her ankles. She smiles at him and her eyes sparkle like a small pond in the moonlight. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, neither of us were paying attention,” Patrick says hurriedly. He suddenly feels very shy as her glinting eyes stare down at him. Patrick looks up and realizes that Margaret is quite a bit taller than him. It leaves him unsure where to look. He stares up to meet her eyes but something in his brain keeps pushing his eyes down to the polished floor. At this point, he could have a quiz on the patterns of the glossy wood floor and pass it with flying colors. His eyes meet Pete and Andy’s in passing. They both seem fascinated by the woman and Patrick’s awkward encounter. “What’s your name?” Patrick feels obligated to hold a conversation with the woman. 

“Margaret Ainsworth. What’s yours?” she asks. Her voice has a sort of southern twang to it. She seems interested in keeping this conversation up as well. She steps in front of Patrick in an attempt to clear the walkway. 

“Patrick Stumph,” he answers. She nods, then smiles. “Nice meeting you. I think I’ll head over to be with my, er, friends now. Have a lovely evening, Margaret.” She bids him good evening as well then heads off with a group of ladies in a far off corner. Patrick can hear them chattering once Margaret makes it over. Patrick saunters over to Pete and Andy. What little pain there was in his side has subsided and his smile takes over half of his face when he sits down. 

“What was that about?” inquires Andy. Patrick shrugs. “Well, who is she? Anyone I might know?” Patrick laughs at the interest of Andy at whatever that encounter was. He slumps down further into his chair. Pete seems as interested as Andy, almost. 

“A Margaret Ainsworth,” replies Patrick. Patrick thinks of what exactly to tell the guys. “She’s got a fairly thick southern accent, can’t place where though. Arkansas, maybe? Hmm, well she talks really low, kind of in a shy way. She’s intriguing to me, no idea why.” Pete wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Patrick blushes. “Cut that out, Peter Wentz! I just met her.” Pete hides a snicker with a gulp of whiskey. Then he nearly chokes on it. “That’s what you deserve, hmph.” Andy and Pete continue to laugh as Joe returns to the table, drink in hand and a puzzled look on his face. 

“What in the world could be so funny? We all look like we fell in a chimney,” Joe jokes with a grin. Everyone stops laughing. “Anyway, what did I miss?” Pete slaps Patrick’s arm with the back of his hand. 

“Patrick over here has the hots for some girl. I bet that we’ll be at their wedding in no time at all!” Pete shouts. Patrick is sure that Pete wanted the whole speakeasy to here that. Patrick tries to hide his reddening face with his sleeve like a schoolboy. It seems that no one was going to give Patrick a mere slice of credit for being a grown man and not a hormonal teenager. “Look at him” -Pete motions to Patrick with a quick hand- “He’s blushing!” Patrick sinks further into his chair, grumbling all the way down. Andy and Pete soon lose the humor in it. Patrick brings something closer to practical and sophisticated conversation into the mix. 

“How long do you think I can keep this up?’ asks Patrick. Before anyone can ask what he means, he elaborates. “I don’t have very much money. It took me a year solid to save up for a refrigerator. How long can I keep up the façade that I’m working overtime but bringing home nothing? I can’t lie to my parents but I also can’t stand long hours and no friends.” No one has an answer for him. “Why am I showing up here?” Andy takes a swig of coke. Despite the light party music drifting through the air, the atmosphere feels drained of emotion. Patrick didn’t mean to ruin the mood but it had been on his mind the whole time. His parents are counting on him. Patrick eyes the clock then stands up. He grabs his jacket off the chair. It’s shabby and doesn’t do a bit of good for warming a fellow up but it belongs to Patrick and that’s all that matters. He slings it onto his shoulders, bids everyone goodbye then leaves the speakeasy. It is considerably earlier than he had left the week before. He feels confident in the idea that his mother won’t ask a thing. 

When he arrives home, his parents lay together asleep on the couch. In front of them, behind the coffee table, is a busted up radio and a plethora of tools. Patrick smiles at his cuddling parents on the couch. He may not have a dime for a real radio or a night on the town. At the end of the day, the happiness of his family when they are together makes it all worth it. He feels loved and love means the most to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update! Hello. 
> 
> \---
> 
> *Please Note*  
> I'm not a person of color. 
> 
> Why include racism then? You ask. 
> 
> Since this is a 1920s AU set in America and Pete is biracial, leaving racism out entirely would be glorifying the 20s far more than they already are. The 1920s had xenophobia, racism, and workers rights issues that aren't addressed as much as the partying and riches part. This is set in the north and the main focus is on friendship and the eventual jazz band, so racism won't be the forefront most of the time. 
> 
> Since I'm a big history fan and want to be accurate, I've done research on quite a few things in this fanfic. That doesn't mean my interpretation is perfect. If I make a mistake of any kind, call me out. In a comment, my twitter dms, what have you. It's not your job to fix anything I write, however, if there's something bothering you with this story, whether it be on the subject of racism in the 20s or not, let me know. 
> 
> \---
> 
> thank you so much for reading!

On Saturday, Patrick wakes up in a joyous mood. He hums a song he heard on the radio a week or two ago as he moves into the kitchen. This being his only day off he cherishes it every time it comes around. The radio itself isn’t in the best shape. His parents had been gifted it a few years ago by an old friend of theirs. It worked but it played very low, no matter how high you turned up the dial. As Patrick fries some eggs on the stove, he dances to the first song that came on. He isn’t any good at dancing but a little shaking in whatever parts he could freely move always put him in high spirits. It was the one he had stuck in his head, a Marion Harris song. He sings along happily and moves his eggs around in the pan. He can’t exactly do the Charleston and fry eggs so it is more of an odd body shake, starting in his head and ending at his hips. Just as he got more into it, he can hear soft chuckling from the hallway. He stops and turns around. There stands his mother gripping the archway, laughing softly. Patrick blushes at the thought of her watching him make a fool of himself. 

“Oh Rick, you don’t have to stop for me. It was adorable,” his mother coos. He pouts and then plates his breakfast. “Can you make me some eggs dear?” Patrick stops in his tracks. There aren't any eggs left. 

“There aren't any,” admits Patrick. His mom shrugs and is about to leave the kitchen when Patrick calls out to her. “but Mama, I can give you mine.” His mother waves him off. 

“Don't worry about it Rick, you worked for those eggs. I sat here in this house. You enjoy the fruits of your labor,” she says. “I'll figure something out.” Patrick tries to persuade her but it's no use, she's made up her mind. His mother is about to walk out of the kitchen again then she turns around halfway to the hallway. “Oh and Patrick? You really could make something out of that beautiful voice of yours. It's magical; I won’t stop telling you that.” Patrick smiles but he doesn't believe a word she says. He won't make it in the music industry, it isn't made for men built like he is. It's for the sharp looking men, not the short ones that slave away in factories. Patrick sighs. He'd given it a lot of thought, starting a jazz band. I'm too shy anyway, he reasons. Besides, who do I know that plays any instruments? He used to play the piano when his parents worked just a while back but he was rusty at it. It was no use. He serves himself his breakfast and sits on the couch, lazily poking his egg with a fork. Usually, he spent his Saturdays gathering sleep for another monotonous work week. Today, he felt inclined to shake things up. When Joe was telling his story about him and Pete, he mentioned the poor side of town. Now, Patrick doesn’t know for sure but he considers it anyway. If Pete is doing factory work and he gets paid less per hour than him, Joe, or Andy, it’s not unlikely that he still lives there. Patrick hasn’t ever been over to that side of town, not that he can recall. He doesn’t live anywhere upscale of course but the place he calls home is considerably whiter. All he knows is that no one cares what immigrants do with their mornings as long as it’s out of their way. He pulled on his coat and headed for the door. He rummaged in his pockets for even a dime to lay on the kitchen counter. He found a paper clip that was bent out of shape and three cents. He laid all three pennies on the counter then headed out the door. 

Saturday mornings were less busy than any other; even for the people who didn’t need to work Sundays. People left their homes bright and early for mass. They went to whichever church was preferred or closest. Patrick hadn’t ever been a very religious man, even with Catholic parents. When he was little and his siblings were still around, it was a family tradition. No matter how much they needed that extra day’s pay, to go to morning mass. Little Patrick couldn’t help but be bored to death through every hymn, passage, and prayer. He liked the idea of Sunday school more than sitting with the adults. After the age of 14, when he joined the workforce, he wasn’t made to go anymore. Patrick hasn’t ever known which was worse, morning mass or morning work hours. His brother had worked a few years before him and his sister stayed home most days. She read whatever she could find around the house. A car horn took Patrick out of his thoughts as he nearly walked directly into a Ford. The man cursed at him but Patrick paid him no attention when he continued across the busy roadway. A habitual need to hum a tune overtook him and soon he was singing softly. He inched closer to his estimation of where Pete’s home was. It was times like these where Patrick wished he had a telephone. He knew he had reached the spot when the buildings became that much more deteriorated. A few kids played a ball game in the alleyway. One or two glanced over as Patrick walked past. He swore he could feel them holding their breath, maybe he imagined it. He had half a mind to backtrack and ask the kids if they knew the Wentz family. He didn’t and instead kept moving along. He tried to imagine which of these sections of rubble Peter Wentz and his family inhabited. Patrick didn’t know if Pete had any siblings. He hoped they were older rather than younger if he had any. On an unmarked street, a man came out of one of the many houses. Patrick bid him hello and was nearly ignored entirely until he called after him. “Do you know where I can find the Wentz’s place?”

“You passed it. It’s two streets down,” the man says. His clothes are close to swallowing the fellow whole. Eight to ten extra inches of fabric hide his hands. He goes to lay a gentle hand on Patrick’s shoulder but decides against it. “Don’t you go and cause trouble now. We don’t want any more than we got.” Patrick nods and hurries back down the street then rounds a corner. On this street, a group of small children is playing soccer with their older brothers. They all have big smiles on their faces as they race up and down the street. Patrick tries to find where the designated goal is. He finds it at both ends of the street, both boys at both ends were standing in front of cardboard boxes. The boys don’t even notice Patrick walking past. The man didn’t explicitly say where Pete lived. Once Patrick did reach the Wentz home, he found Pete sitting on the front steps, watching the boys. Patrick sits next to him and Patrick isn’t sure Pete notices him until he starts talking. He doesn’t say hello, though. 

“I remember when I was a kid. I played soccer on this street-” he motions to the boys as one falls flat onto his back-“So many bruises. My older sister used to laugh when the neighbors tried to push me to the ground, set on taking the ball. All I did was run faster. I played every day of my life. By the time Joe came around as my best friend, I was too old to play. ‘It’s time to work,’ my father said. Joe came from a family that was poor too but his family didn’t believe in sending kids off to work. For my family, it didn’t matter what my family believed in. My siblings worked before me. I refused when they asked me at first; now even what they made wasn’t enough with my dad getting sicker day by day. I started as a paperboy. The man who owned the company made all the kids deliver papers, rain or shine, snow or hail. He treated us all pretty badly, I think he hated kids in general. He treated the black kids the worst. There were black kids, not many, he beat them the most. He yelled names at them, but no one else mixed like me. I was a ‘half-breed.’ We’re not exactly a dime a dozen. White people just don’t marry black people. Anyway, my parents loved each other and I loved them. There were ups and downs but they lasted until my dad died. I’ll always remember my mother as the best woman, maybe the only one in my life. I love her. I’m not ashamed of her or me.” 

Patrick stayed silent. Pete kept his eyes on the boys for a while then continued talking. “Why are you here, Patrick?” Patrick shrugged. He didn’t know why he came other than a need to do something different with his Saturday. “We’re not exactly friends.” 

“Aren’t we?” Patrick asked. “I don’t have anyone but my parents, you, Joe, and Andy. I figured we were at least beginning to be friends. I guess I know more about you than you know about me, though.” Pete shrugs. 

“Tell me about yourself, then,” Pete suggests. He puts his head on his fist like a kindergartener at story time. He feigns the same overly-interested look. Patrick swats his hand and Pete sits up. “Go on.” 

“Fine,” Patrick rolls his eyes. “My parents were always in a tight spot, especially back home. It’s worse there now, owing the whole world money. From where they stood, in poverty, America looked like an oasis. My parents saved up for months, every penny they had. We almost sold everything to the first buyer. I barely remember but I remember my last toy. It was a stuffed bear. It was being sold for a few cents to get on that boat. We were in 3rd class, near the boiler. The only thing I can recall is this older Irish boy who loved to tell stories. I’m not sure why he was on that boat. They were the most amazing ones. Always about the same crime-fighting badger. My childhood here was a bit better than Germany had been but food was still hard to come by. I haven’t told you about them but my older siblings never actually joined us here. They stayed with my grandpa and grandma. I never really learned German like my family did- at least not fluently. My parents don’t speak it. I think it’s so I can understand. American schools don’t teach many languages. I went into the workforce at 23, which was only 3 years ago. My parents saw the kids here- uneducated, illiterate- and didn’t want that for me so I went to school. I couldn’t miss a day. That’s why I’m not dead or have black lung. It’s so terrible. Just last week I saw an 8, maybe 9-year-old boy nearly pull his hair out falling asleep on a machine. It got caught and I looked up and the conveyor just kept moving and moving and moving. I screamed and he snapped his eyes open and separated the caught hairs from the rest of the strands. It only gets worse from there. My parents lost mobility after two separate machine failures. My dad worked at Ford and my mom worked in a rug making factory. I switched from a store clerk at a family owned place to the slightly higher paying job of ‘meat canner.’ And here we are.” 

Pete nods. “You said you didn’t learn German fluently but you didn’t say, at all. What words do you know?” 

Patrick laughs. “Greetings. Formal and informal. Mostly from when Grandma and Grandpa call.” Pete raises his finger to ask something. Patrick guesses his next words. “No, I don’t know anything dirty. “ -Pete lowers his finger and shuts his mouth. Patrick rolls his eyes. 

“You can talk German to me anytime,” Pete winks. Patrick punches him in the arm. Pete just keeps smiling his stupid smile. “What?” Patrick stands up to leave. “Aw, don’t go.” 

“Nah, I’m going. You can come with me if you want. Actually, where does Andy live?” Patrick asks. Pete shrugs. “Don’t be that way.” Pete isn’t budging. “Oh hell, fine, show me the way. Just be less annoying..” Pete grins. Patrick rolls his eyes for what feels like the umpteenth times. “Sohn einer Hündin.”

“And what was that?” Pete stares him down. Patrick shrugs. “That didn’t sound like a greeting to me Patrick Stumph!” Patrick laughs. Pete crosses his arms and huffs. 

“Oh, maybe I know one swear,” he smiles innocently. “I promise I don’t know any more. My parents don’t swear much.” He walks off ahead of Pete. Pete stays in the spot for a few moments before racing off after Patrick shouting. 

“Hey! At least tell me what you said! Patrick! I want to know what you called me!” -Pete walks faster- “Hey! Asshole!” 

“Keep dreaming, Peter!” Patrick shouts back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! I hope you enjoy this chapter! (Don't be afraid to leave a comment, even if it's non-constructive criticism.

Andrew Hurley lives far off from downtown. He lives alone in a shoe-box sized house near the railroad tracks. Patrick didn’t expect such a long trek when he asked Pete where he lived. The road leading up to the Hurley residence is bare and littered with wild grasses. The tracks themselves are rusted over but clearly still in use. Patrick and Pete encountered a train on their way. It was loud, went a less than moderate speed, and shook the ground. Patrick can’t imagine living every waking moment with trains passing close by. Patrick isn’t sure what he expected to see when he arrived at Andy’s house but a shack wasn’t it. Andy has the best home situation of all four guys but that isn’t saying much. 

The kitchen has the bare essentials: running water, a refrigerator, and a stove. The kitchen is also the living room, which consists of a couch and book. The only separate rooms are Andy’s bedroom and the bathroom. Patrick is thankful for the last part. He really has to pee. The moment he and Pete enter the front doorway, Patrick made a beeline to the bathroom. Andy stares at Pete and Pete shrugs in response. How is he to know why Patrick hadn’t asked? At this moment, Andy and Pete are judging Patrick’s skills at being a polite guest. Patrick eventually returns from the bathroom. He mumbles an apology and sits at Andy’s kitchen table. 

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Andy says. Patrick tells Andy that he didn’t expect to show up at everyone houses; it just sort of happened. Andy walks over to his fridge and swings it open. “Well, you’re here anyway. Do you want something to drink? I have-” Andy gives his a fridge a quick once over. “-nothing. I don’t have anything to eat either. Never mind.” Andy joins Pete and Patrick at the table. 

“It’s fine, Andy. The only thing I have at my house is a bread loaf,” Patrick says. Patrick laughs and so does Pete, and Andy after him. “What are we laughing about?” No one’s sure but it was a good laugh anyway. Andy shows them around his quaint living space. Patrick notices something out of the corner of his eye as they are about to exit the living room. Patrick swivels around and walks over to investigate. The drum kit shines faintly against the sunlight pouring in through the window. Patrick almost decides it’s a decoration until he spots drumsticks sitting on the couch in front of it. Andy calls to him then notices what he’s looking at. Patrick picks up the drumsticks and studies them with a careful hand. He turns to Andy. “You play the drums?” 

Andy nods. “Yeah. It’s a hobby. I do it in my spare time. I want to do it for a living but no one has accepted me.” Patrick grins. He can play the piano, trumpet, drums, and guitar at least a little bit. He has an idea. “What are you smiling about?” 

“Us!” Patrick motions to Pete, Andy, and to Joe, who isn’t there. “Pete, can you play an instrument?” Pete nods. 

“I’m okay with string bass, why?” Pete asks, eyebrows raised. Patrick paces around the room. His mind is going at hyper-speed. “Patrick?” It’ll be a very small band, and missing a few instruments, but it’ll still be a band. Patrick wonders if Joe can play anything. The only problem is Patrick didn’t get Joe’s telephone number. Pete knows Joe, maybe he knows where he lives? 

“Pete, do you know where Joe lives?” Patrick asks hurriedly. Pete nods slowly. “Pete, Andy, we’re going to start a jazz band!” Pete and Andy look at each other quizzically. Patrick is already out the door and up the street. He’s wheezing a little but he has more excitement than anyone had expected such a small man to have. Pete and Andy hurry down the road behind the overly excited Patrick Stumph. 

Joe’s apartment is the one his family purchased when they had first arrived in Chicago. It’s only a block down from Pete’s. Patrick grumbles, noting that he should have seen Joe first instead of Andy. Joe is sat on his front porch; much like Pete had been two hours ago. He has a cigarette between his lips. He waves joyfully when he sees us coming from down the street. Joe’s coat is a faded brown color and tattered. Patrick finds it odd that he’s wearing a coat in the springtime. He decides it’s too irrelevant to ask. 

“What are you guys doing here?” Joe asks. Andy and Pete shrug. “You don’t know? I’m glad you’re here anyway.” Pete and Andy eye the coat. “What? This old thing? It’s cold inside my apartment.” Joe puts out his cigarette and leads the boys inside. None of them believed that his house was cold on the inside into the stepped into it. It feels like winter instead of spring. Patrick rubs his arms. “You think the tin can I live in would be warmer. It only gets hot in the summer.” 

“How is it during the winter?” Pete asks, rubbing his arms. Joe chuckles then stops. 

He looks Pete dead in the eye and says. “Like Hell. Blizzard Hell.” 

“That cold, huh.” Pete mumbles. “Nice.” 

Joe has food in his cabinets, unlike the Andy and Pete. It’s not bread or soup. It’s Oreo cookies. It was a rare occurrence for any of the guys to eat Oreo cookies but here they were, in Joe’s apartment, eating Oreo cookies and telling each other funny stories. Joe didn’t mention playing any instruments. 

“I came here to ask you something,” Patrick says after swallowing a bite of Oreo frosting. Patrick isn’t one for chocolate, even if it was just an oreo cookie. He ate the frosting and whichever guy wanted the cookie part, took it. “We haven’t agreed on it yet but I think me, Andy, and Pete are going to start a jazz band. It’ll be half the size of a normal one-”

“A bite-sized band!” Pete interjects. Patrick rolls his eyes but he has to admit, it’s not bad. 

“-sure, a bite-sized band. Andy can play drums, Pete will play the string bass, and me, well, I think I’ll play the piano or the trumpet. I haven’t decided yet,” Patrick continues.“I don’t know where we’d play but I think it would be lots of fun. Just a way to make extra money and enjoy music. Can you play an instrument?” Joe thinks about it for a minute. 

“I can play guitar,” Joe answers. “We’d be missing sax, tuba, and some other instruments but if you play piano and the trumpet, Patrick, I think we can make it work. Switch from one to the other.” The other guys agree. This is shaping up to be an idea that isn’t half bad. 

Andy throws logic into the mix of dreams and desperation. “Where will we play? When are we going to meet for band practice? We’re busy men.” Patrick frowns and so does Pete. They hadn’t thought of that yet. Rarely was there ever a mixed-race jazz band. What place would they be allowed to play? Maybe the speakeasy? They’d consider that later. Right now, a meeting time is much more important. 

“How about we meet outside the factory after work? Hmm... my family’s home is close to the speakeasy and the factory. Andy’s is on the other side of town, that won’t work. Pete’s and Joe’s are farther from downtown but they might be more accepting. Pete, how about we meet at your place? It’s not a bad spot,” Patrick says his thoughts aloud. 

“My family will be all right with it,” Pete says. “My mom would like it more if I brought you over. You’ll love her, I promise.” Then it’s settled. The band will meet at Pete’s. “We need a name though.” They decided to leave that for later too. They’d cross each bridge as they came close to it. For now, they’d eat Joe’s Oreos and plan for the future. 

 

\---

“We run into each other often, huh?” she laughs. “Where do you work?” For once in his life, Patrick tries to avoid rambling. 

“The factory a block down,” Patrick says. His are focused on the metal trap called his job. He can see it in his sights. If only he could just arrive there. Margaret isn’t in any rush, it seems. 

“Oh. That’s lovely,” she says. It’s really not. Patrick thinks to himself. He isn’t sure if she believes it’s a nice profession or she’s trying to make small talk. “I work as a telephone operator. I think I quite like my job. Do you like yours?” Patrick checks his watch. He’s not late yet but he will be if she keeps talking. Patrick loves talking to people. This is just bad timing at it’s finest. 

“Not really. It’s not fun but I need the money,” Patrick answers truthfully. “Right now, I have to be there. I’ll try to talk to you later. I need to go.” Patrick rushes off the bench and hurries to his place of employment. The dense smoke pumps out of the top as quickly as ever. Patrick enters the gate and takes his place at the conveyor. Frank isn’t here today. Patrick spots Joe carrying a box of cans, Andy working the meat grinder, and Pete absentmindedly checking pieces of meat. He already looks tired. Patrick wonders what time he arrives in the morning. The loud noises of the factory almost always interrupt Patrick’s thoughts. Patrick watches Pete the entire time. He looks so incredibly tired. It’s so dangerous to fall asleep here. Pete’s fingers aren’t far enough from the blades chopping the meat into cubes. If he screamed, Patrick may not hear him at all. Patrick cans the meat on the conveyor haphazardly. It doesn’t have his attention right now. Pete does. His heart beats like a drum in his chest as Pete falls in and out of consciousness. Patrick can’t let anyone else hurt. Especially not one of his new friends. Patrick moves from his workstation against his better judgment. His boss probably wouldn’t notice anyway. Patrick approached Pete cautiously. If he jumped, he might hit his hand on the blade. Patrick reached for Pete’s hand carefully and pulled him back. Pete was in a sleepy daze. He barely noticed Patrick at all. Patrick led Pete outside. His eyes opened when the sunlight hit them. 

“What am I doin’ out here?” Pete mumbled. Patrick sat him down on the concrete. “Patrick? What’s-” he yawns. “-what’s goin’ on?” Patrick takes a seat next to him. He hopes that his boss won’t notice their break and doesn’t dock either of them pay. 

“I’ll explain later. Get some sleep, okay?” Patrick whispers. Pete’s eyes shut again. This time he couldn’t force them open again. He fell into Patrick’s lap. Patrick didn’t expect to stay out here with Pete but his head kept him from getting up and he didn’t have the heart to move it for the first few hours. He eventually did move Pete’s head and return back to work.


	5. Chapter 5

Patrick rubs his sleepy eyes on the way out of work. He reaches into his lunch pail for his cap when he feels the oily texture of a partially eaten ham sandwich. He pulls it out and tosses it into a nearby trash can. He slides his cap onto his strawberry blonde locks. In the distance, he spots a figure watching him. His heart quickens its pace. Who is that and why? Patrick pulls his cap to cover his face and races past the gate and out of factory grounds as fast as his legs will carry him. His asthma threatens to act up when he breaks into a full out run when he hits the street. A voice calls after him. 

“Patrick! Slow down!” 

Patrick’s heart rate slows as the voice enters his ears. The soft pitter patter of Margaret Ainsworth’s heeled shoes rings against the concrete. She catches up to Patrick fairly easily. He gives her a small smile and she blushes. A small bag lands in Patrick’s hand. 

“What’s this?” he asks, investigating the bag. Margaret shrugs. Patrick pulls open the brown paper bag and looks inside. His stomach rumbles. Inside the bag is a batch of homemade peanut butter cookies. 

“You know what they say, the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she says, cheerily. Patrick thanks her. He starts on his walk home until he hears the pitter patter of her shoes again. Patrick stops once more and waits for Margaret to catch up. “I was thinking, since we don’t really know each other and I don’t have any male friends outside of work, you could come over to my place and I’ll make you a feast fit for a king.” Patrick thinks about his empty fridge at home. 

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” Patrick says with a wave of his hand. 

“It’s really no trouble.” 

“Alright then,” whispers Patrick. His mind is buzzing and it’s hard to concentrate. “Saturday?”

Margaret nods then gives Patrick a full-lipped smile. Her deep rouge lipstick makes a stunning juxtaposition against her pale face. “It’s a date.” Margaret hurries away and leaves Patrick in utter shock. The cookies he’s holding nearly fall out of his grip. Looks like I have a date on Saturday, Patrick thinks to himself. Patrick hadn’t put much thought into his love life since his parents had been injured. He didn’t feel he had the time for social activities. Patrick hums a happy tune in the darkness of the late hours of Chicago all the way home. Something crunches under the pressure of his boot when he reaches the front door. Patrick gingerly puts Margaret’s gift down on the doormat. He grabs the slip of paper and folds it open. His eyes strain to read the messy handwriting under the dim lighting of the cramped hallway. 

Patrick, 

My place. 11 0’clock. Band practice. 

 

\-- Pete

Patrick shakes his head at the lack of subtlety of Pete Wentz. Patrick shoves the piece of paper into his pocket. He doesn’t want to think about what may have happened if his parents had found the note instead of him. Patrick opens the door to his family’s shared apartment and glanced at the clock on the wall. He sighs. Band practice is in a half hour and the walk to Pete’s house isn’t a short one. His mom had fallen asleep in front of the radio. The stations had long since shut off. It is only white noise now. Patrick drops his lunch pail on the countertop. He grabs a piece of scrap paper and a ball point pen to write his parents a note. Will be out late, a coworker needs help with moving some boxes, he writes. He dots the “I” in his name and pushes the note to the center of the table. The air outside is just warm enough that Patrick doesn't need his jacket. He slides it off his shoulders and folds it over his right arm. He walks down the street in the dark to the home of Pete's family. 

The people he passes by in Pete's neighborhood shoot him strange glances. Most of them are adults leaving the homes of their neighbors or returning home from a late work night. Patrick politely tips his hat to them and smiles. He avoids small talk. They whisper amongst each other but say nothing else. Patrick reaches Pete's house and knocks lightly on the door. The person who answers the door surprises him. It's not Pete but his mother. She greets Patrick with a smile and lets him in. The others are already inside the house when Patrick arrives. Patrick shoots a quick glance back at Pete's mom before joining them at the kitchen table. 

"You might want to set your clocks back," says Pete. "You're late." 

Patrick spots the time on the clock above Pete's head. It is a quarter past 11. Patrick mumbles something about Pete shutting up and sits down. The bands' instruments are shoved off to the side against the wall. All four members of the band are still in their rundown work clothes. Pete's mother asks them if they'd like drinks. Pete stands up to get the beverages himself. Joe asks for a cola, Andy asks for water, and Patrick declines. Pete returns with the drinks and the band meeting begins. 

"Before we decide on a band name," says Pete. "We need a song." Pete grabs a few crumpled papers from his pocket. "I'm a bit of a songwriter myself but they aren't any good. We could fix them up a bit?" Patrick grabs one of the crumpled up pieces of paper and reads the words written sloppily on it. His eyes widen in surprise. 

"Pete, this is good," says Patrick. "Really good." Patrick hands the paper to Joe who reads it then passes it to Andy. 

"Patrick's right," says Joe, "All we need is the music." 

"And a singer," Andy points out. "I'm on drums, Pete's on string bass, Joe's on guitar, and Patrick is on piano and trumpet. Who's going to sing? Some jazz bands are all instrument but if we're going to have lyrics, we need someone to sing them."

Pete shakes his head and waves his hands. "Not me. I sound like a dying walrus when I sing. Joe?" 

Joe and Andy shrug. Patrick mumbles something about being an okay singer but not being very good. 

"Let's all sing something. Then we'll judge who did it better." 

"Joe and Patrick will fight for it," says Andy. "I'm not the singing type. I don't want to have much to do with the lyrics. I'm a drummer and the drums are what I'll stick to doing." 

"I can do background vocals but I don't want to be the main event," says Joe. "I wanna hear Patrick sing."

Patrick turns a shade of pink and adjusts his collar. "Oh, all right. I'll sing something I heard on the radio." 

Patrick starts barely above a whisper. His voice inches higher as he gets into the swing of the radio hit he's singing. The others start snapping along to the tune of the song. When Patrick finishes, Pete cheers. 

"We've found our singer," says Pete happily. "Next time you say you're 'okay' at something we'll all assume you're the Da Vinci of the whole thing." Patrick proceeds to punch him lightly in the arm. "I only speak the truth, Patrick."

"What's our band name going to be?" Patrick asks. "We aren't going to be Patrick Stumph & His Orchestra, I don't want that much attention. Plus, that sounds like I'm some guy with a giant ego."

"You give off this air of musical superiority," says Joe. Patrick grumbles and crosses his arms. 

"How about...The Metal Can Orchestra?" suggests Pete. Patrick, Joe, and Andy collectively groan at Pete's awful suggestion. "Fine, fine. This is supposed to be our break from being dusty factor workers. Hmm... The Short Fellas Band?" 

"Pete can't name the band," says Patrick. "I'm not going to be announced as The Short Fellas Band." 

"Hey!" 

"The Short Fellas Band is an awful name, Pete, accept it." 

Joe's eyes light up. 

"What about something out of the ordinary? We aren't all white or all black which is odd as it is. What if we go outside of the box? We could be something different, something great," Joe muses. "We could be the...wait. We're kind of a "fall down" of society right? We fell down. We fell.....out! We don't fit in so we fell out! What about The Fall Outs? Or just Fall Out?" 

"What's falling out?" asks Patrick. "Us?" 

"Yeah! We could be Fall Out or The Fall Outs." 

" I like it," says Pete. "The Fall-Outs has a nice ring to it. With a dash or without?" 

"Forget grammar! Without. It would make the right people uncomfortable and everyone else stick with us," says Joe. "We're bordering on never being played on the radio. It's a statement. We aren't afraid to fall out of the norm." 

"Alright," says Patrick. "We're The Fall Outs." 

The band starts work on their first song. Patrick and Pete toss around ideas about the music whilst Joe and Andy mess around with their instruments. Joe comes up with a half decent melody on accident. The boys debate on what the best way to spruce up Joe's tune is. Patrick wants something with a classic beat, Pete wants something a tad newer, and Andy doesn't care as long as long as he gets to drum to his heart's content and everybody stops bickering like five-year-olds. It takes a half hour for Pete and Patrick to agree on anything. When they finally do, it's near midnight and Andy sighs in relief. 

"Peace! Finally!" shouts Andy. 'I thought we'd be here all night fighting. Good night, I'm going home." 

Andy leaves the other three members of the band to talk. Patrick decides to mention his upcoming date. Pete and Joe share a hearty laugh. 

"She just showed up at the factory?" Joe says. "You don't think that's strange? You met her three nights ago and she already knows where you work." Patrick shrugs. He hadn't thought much of it. 

"I don't think she's going to poison me," Patrick says. "But who knows. It's better than dying in a factory accident." 

"Definitely," Pete chimes in. "Death by pretty girl beats death by heartless, cold machine any day." 

"This is all well and morbid but I'm tired. Goodnight, see you at work tomorrow. Don't wanna fall asleep and get any fingers caught in the canner tomorrow. These are guitar strumming fingers!" Joe announces. Joe takes his leave. Patrick waves a quick goodbye to Pete and heads out into the breezy midnight air. Patrick slings his jacket over his shoulders, wearing it like a shawl. Everyone on Pete's street has fallen asleep or are staring at him through a crack in their windows, Patrick isn't sure which. Either way, no one bothers him on his way to the outskirts of downtown Chicago. Patrick avoids side streets and alleyways as he inches closer to his apartment. He reaches the front without any issues. He whistles a tune as he opens then shuts the door behind him. He locks it with a click and turns around to the living room. His mother is still asleep in front of the radio. Patrick slides the note off the counter and tosses it into a trash can. He drapes his coat over the couch then heads to his room. He uses the toilet in the closet-sized room the Stumphs had for a bathroom and crashes into his bed. He takes a quick glance at his alarm clock as he drifts off into an uncomfortable sleep. 

Patrick goes about his usual morning routine for the next week. Wake up with a creak of his bed, throw on his work clothes, skip breakfast, prepare a ham sandwich, grab his jacket, and head out. His job consists of the exact same things: cut meat, can it, and stay awake. Pete doesn't fall asleep on the job again but someone else does. Someone else always does. A dull-eyed young lad, around seventeen, falls asleep near the oven. Patrick watches it happen with his own two eyes. The boy fights the sleep that clouds his eyes. His nods off then wakes with a start over and over again. Soon his exhaustion proves to be too much and he falls asleep. His face gets to close to the oven for Patrick's comfort. Risking his job, Patrick rushes over to wake the boy up. No one else leaves their post to help him. The boy only suffers a light burn to one of his rosy cheeks. Patrick hauls, to the best of his ability, the boy's limp body across the floor of and out of the factory. The movement and the bright sunlight wake the boy up. 

"Get some rest," says Patrick. The boy mumbles something about his job but Patrick shushes him. He leaves the boy to sleep on a bench outside of the building of the factory. He returns to his monotonous post canning the cubed meat that passes him on the conveyor. To keep himself occupied and awake, he watches his coworkers go about their day. He spots Pete farther down the conveyor pushing meat into cans. He glares at the empty spot where Frank should be. He waves to Joe as he pushes boxes of canned meat to a truck. Andy is in another part of the factory. Patrick doesn't see him. Patrick hums the tune to his bands' new song and works until the week is done. 

By the time Saturday rolls around, Patrick is thankful for his date with Margaret being just around the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! If you're still reading this, thank you, and I'm terribly sorry about the 6-month wait on this. I wasn't expecting to keep writing it. I missed this story so much I decided only just this week to pick back up on it. I want to get back into my writing swing so I decided throwing a little variety into the mix will help me. (I'll be alternating between writing my WIP novel, T R I O, my newer WIP horror novel (of which the name won't be released until later), and At The Beginning Of The Hour. (Its acronym is ATBOTH which is super easy to pronounce.) 
> 
> Anyway, see you all in the next update (which I promise won't take 6 months!) 
> 
> \- Mikayla
> 
> (Oh! and if you're wondering why I didn't decide to call the band Fall Out Boy, it's because it wouldn't make sense to the 20s. The concept of nuclear fallout, let alone The Simpsons character, wasn't a thing yet. I wanted to give it a The Temptations or a The Andrews Sisters kind of vibe while keeping in mind that a band like Fall Out Boy {the members in the band, specifically} would have been considered a bit odd to be in a jazz band together. It's a 1920s big band style name with a small modern twist. )


	6. Chapter 6

It’s been a long time since Patrick has had anywhere to wear his formal attire. His outfit isn’t elegant or stuffy but it will do the job. Patrick adjusts his tie in a small mirror that used to belong to his grandmother. His face is clean shaven and his hair is tousled lightly. He’s never liked how gel feels in his hair. He adjusts his tie one more time for good measure then exits his bedroom. When he walks into the kitchen, his mom is leaning against the counter with a glass of water in her hands. Her eyes widen when she sees Patrick. 

“Where are you going looking so handsome?” she asks with a grin. Patrick tucks his white dress shirt into his pants. 

“I have a date,” Patrick says whilst sliding on his shoes. His mom gets an inquisitive look in her eye. 

“Where? With who? How’d you meet her?” she asks hurriedly. Patrick ignores her question. Instead, he opts to check his appearance just one more time in the back of a spoon. 

“Bye, mom,” he says. He walks out the door with a guilty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He can’t lie to his mother again so instead, he decides to tell her as little as possible. It is for the best. It would be too hard to explain and it would unravel all of his previous lies. He has to keep the lie going, for his mother’s sake. 

Patrick doesn’t have much experience with trolleys. It has been a while since he’s taken one anywhere. He waits on the busy sidewalk with all of the people in a hurry for the trolley. It seems as if the trolley is taken the slow route around the city. Patrick occupies himself with counting how many men with hats are roaming the streets. It soon becomes far too many to count. He notes how windy the day is. Everyone is having a hard time keeping their hats on their heads. Thankfully the trolley arrives before the wind can blow Patrick off the sidewalk. A conductor with a friendly face greets him when he boards. Patrick takes a seat next to a banker and his wife. The banker rambles on about finances while his wife daydreams about whatever man would please her more to be around. The other passengers on the trolley are dreadfully boring and boringly dreadful accountants. The trolley has the dullness of a mathematics classroom. One passenger takes Patrick’s interest though. She’s a small Irish girl with light hair. She tries to tell the accountant next to her the most wonderful story. The accountant ignores her. The girl reminds Patrick of the kids on the ship that brought him and his family to America. 

The trolley arrives at Patrick’s stop. He steps off the trolley without ever talking to the little Irish girl. He walks to Margaret’s home pondering where she could have been off to all alone. The neighborhood that surrounds Margaret’s home is one of the nicest ones Patrick has ever seen. Margaret lives towards the outskirts of town, almost in the suburbs. Her house is nothing like anyone in the band’s. Unlike Pete’s, it’s not a rundown apartment. Unlike Patrick’s, there are flowers growing absolutely everywhere. Unlike Andy’s, it’s clean and like a dream. Patrick stares in awe of the spotless whitewashed fence outside the house. The flowers that sit in the flower bed behind it are in full bloom. Patrick turns the corner toward the front of Margaret’s simple yet masterfully crafted home. Patrick glances at the car in the driveway. The car is a sleek black color that rose about a foot and a half off the ground. The wheels are big and support the car’s body. Its front was long and proud like a nose. There are two seats in it that shine in the morning sun. The car has no roof and it is beautiful. Patrick turns his gaze away from the car to the light wood steps and the whitewashed door that lead into Margaret’s house. Patrick adjusts his tie again out of a nervous habit and approaches the door. He knocks. The door opens with a wide swing. Margaret stands in the doorway in a picturesque housewife sort of way. Her hair is short and pushed back away from her eyes. A loose checked house dress makes her frame look boyish but comfortable. The collar circles her shoulders and falls into two pieces of fabric dangling from her neck - sort of like a sailor. On top of this was a simple apron dusted lightly with flour. 

"Good morning!" she says politely. Margaret steps aside to let Patrick in the house. "I made buttermilk pancakes, eggs, grits, toast, and the jam is over here. My mom made jam from scratch growing up. I can't imagine buying it from a store." 

Patrick can't help staring at the tablecloth - his family didn't have any clean tablecloths - and the array of breakfast foods on top of it. He saw the buttermilk pancakes Margaret was referring to in a stack at the center of the table, next to a jug of syrup. Patrick hadn't had very much homemade food since his mother's accident. Most of his diet consists of store-bought eggs and canned meats. Patrick took a seat across from Margaret and stared at the food in front of him. He spots the jam in a mason jar with a cloth tied over the top. Next to it is butter for the pancakes and toast. There are already two fried eggs on his plate. And the last item he sees is what he assumes are grits. They look somewhere between mashed potatoes and oatmeal. Patrick takes a couple of pancakes, two slices of toast, butter, and jam. He avoids the grits. Margaret takes the same amount of everything except the grits. She takes a large spoonful and drops it into the bowl next to her. The pair eat in silence for a few moments before Margaret decides on a topic of conversation. 

"How long have you been in Chicago?" she asks, swallowing a mouthful of grits. 

"Nearly my whole life," Patrick says. "My parents came here from Germany when I was little. I've been here ever since. How long have you been here? You don't have a Chicago accent." 

Margaret laughs. "So you noticed? I came north two years ago. My daddy was the son of a rather wealthy plantation owner in Alabama. After the Civil War, my granddad sold the plantation and moved to a ranch in Tennessee. My daddy was raised there and so was I. After my mama died last year and my daddy bought a nice dance hall, he moved both of us to Chicago. 'Against his better judgment' as he says it, he allowed me to get a job at the telephone company. He's a traditional man. He and Mama were firm believers that good women should be good wives, not workers." 

Patrick swallows his pancake and wonders what type of 'traditional' her father is. Margaret retells some of her childhood memories as he zones out. Patrick looks to the car just outside the window. Surely if he's against women working, he's against women driving. Uh oh. 

"Is that your father's car?" Patrick asks worriedly. If Margaret's father is 'traditional,' Patrick doesn't want to know what may become of him if her father were to stroll in. Margaret follows Patrick's gaze outside. 

"Oh, that? Yeah, that's my daddy's," she says casually. "Don't worry about him. He's at the neighbor's house doing repair. Southern hospitality and all that. I told him you were here. He's okay with it." 

Patrick holds his tongue at her comments about her father being 'okay with it.' If Patrick had been in the fighting mood, he would have told her that her father in no way had to be okay with his presence at her house. He assumes she internalized some of what her father says. He takes another bite of pancake. 

"You said your father owns a dance hall?" Patrick says after a while. "Do bands play there?" 

Margaret's eyes light up into a blue as bright as the sky. She rambles on about all the amazing musicians that her father has gotten to play over the last few months. She muses about what other musicians she would love to see play. Patrick can barely fight the grin that spreads across his face. The band will be ecstatic! He might just get them their first gig. "My friends and I have a band. It's small but we'd love to play at your father's dance hall." 

"You do? That's great! My daddy would love to have you all. Tomorrow night?" 

Patrick hadn't expected the date to be so soon but he happily accepted the offer. Margaret clears the table of leftover food and plates while Patrick fights the urge to jump for joy. While Margaret is placing the jar of syrup back into one of the cupboards, Patrick asks if she has a telephone. She motions down the hall. Patrick heads down the hall and is momentarily distracted by a family photo of Margaret and who looks to be her mother and father. The picture must have been taken a while before the Great War; Margaret is a smiling girl of elementary school age. She stands at the center of the photo. One of her mother’s and father’s hands are on each of her shoulders. All three of them are in turn-of-the-century attire. Her parents look as if they are scowling. Only Margaret herself could hold a smile long enough for the photographer to take the picture. Patrick stops staring at the family memento and continues down the nicely decorated hallway. He spots the telephone on the way. He grabs the receiver and punches Pete’s number in first. He waits for the operator, who has a soothing feminine voice, to transfer him over. At first, Pete wants to know all about Patrick’s date. Patrick waits until Pete gets all of the incessant questions out of his system. He then tells him the news. Pete shouts giddily like a schoolgirl then regains his composure. The conversations with Joe and Andy aren’t as long or mildly irritating. Both Joe and Andy are calm. Patrick hangs the receiver and joins Margaret in the kitchen. She has finished tidying the table. 

“Thank you for breakfast and your telephone,” Patrick says politely. 

“Anytime.” 

“I hate to leave but I have to, though. Thank you again.” 

Patrick waves goodbye to Margaret and heads out the door. He walks down the light wood steps full and happily humming a tune. For once in his twenty-six years, he allows himself to sing while walking down the street. Passerby send him judgmental looks as he hops onto the trolley singing merrily. He pays them no mind and takes his seat on the trolley. This time, the dreadfully boring accountants are already at work and the small Irish girl is somewhere else. The trolley is full of school age children enjoying their weekend off from school. They trade candies they bought for four pennies and laugh rambunctiously. Patrick smiles at their youthful ignorance. 

The trolley stops a block away from his house. Patrick rises from his seat and says his thanks to the driver. He gives a candy-less boy a dime and takes his leave of the trolley. The usual mid-morning foot traffic greets Patrick as soon as he steps onto the sidewalk. Patrick walks down the block, up the stairs, and into his home. His mother and father sit at the kitchen table reading the morning paper and patiently awaiting breakfast. After a particularly good week at the factory, Patrick was able to buy eggs and canned ham. His father looks up from his paper to greet him. Patrick waves hello. He grabs a match and lights the stove. The heat from the flame barely makes a dent in the chilly air of the Stumph household. Patrick's mother asks questions and Patrick answers every question with varying forms of 'fine.' 

"Is she a nice girl?" asks his dad after a while. Patrick cracks an egg. Cautiously, he drops it into the sizzling pan of oil. 

"As far as I can tell," Patrick says. "I met her a few weeks ago. She's a good cook. Well, I guess a girl raised to be housewife would be. Her father is old fashioned. I don't know how well we'll get along. Her house is nicer than any one around here. She lives close to the suburbs. Her father has a fancy car. I saw it on my way in. She's odd. She's from Tennessee and has a southern accent. I guess she's something of a southern belle." 

Patrick flips the eggs in the frying pan. The oil sizzles in another pan as Patrick dumps the can of ham into it. Once the eggs finish cooking, he plates them and the ham soon after. He places the plates in front of his parents and takes a seat. 

"Do you think you'll see her again?" his mother asks. 

A light bulb lights up in Patrick's head. "I'm taking her dancing tomorrow. Her dad owns a dance hall a few streets away." 

-  
The next morning Patrick follows his usual workday routine. He wakes up to his alarm then shuffles out of bed. He pulls on his dirty work clothes, eats breakfast, and brushes his teeth. He skips making his lunch. The ham provided by Frank's family has run out. Patrick puts on his coat and cap then heads out the door. Days have ticked away like minutes and the Spring air has gotten warmer since early April. Summer is on the horizon. The people who pass by Patrick on his way to work have traded their winter coats for thinner fabric. Those who can't afford coal for their furnaces are thanking God himself for the late Spring heat. A thin layer of sweat collects on Patrick's brow. He trades winter goosebumps for summer sweat. 

He arrives at the gate that encloses his workplace. The overbearing sound of machinery chugging along causes him an instant headache. Patrick walks into the tin can of the factory and assumes his position on the assembly line. His eyes search for any missing people. Both Pete and the boy he had saved only days before stand in their respective stations. Patrick lets out a sigh and begins yet another monotonous workday. 

The moment the clock strikes ten Patrick's nerves awaken. Leaving the overheated air and entering the cool chill of the late evening outside only increases the buzzing in every inch of Patrick's skin. He wipes his forehead on his sleeve. He steps outside the front gate and leans against it. His whole life feels like a series of moments where he is waiting for something - anything to happen. Tonight could be the turn of a new leaf. Soon, Pete joins him. He pushes his elbow against the gate. 

"You ready?" he asks casually. Patrick nods quickly, maybe a little too quickly. Pete raises an eyebrow then grins. "This could be it. The beginning of the rest of our lives." His voice has a layer of amazement. He stares hopefully into the starry sky. "I feel like I'm not waiting anymore." 

"It feels like more waiting," Patrick says. He thinks of his life up to now. The waiting for money for a boat. Waiting for the boat to land off the coast of America. Waiting for someone, anyone to hire him. Waiting for the monotony of his life to end. Waiting for- everything. "We're waiting for our big break. I'm tired of waiting." 

Joe and Andy come last. The band barely has time to change before their gig at Margaret's father's dance hall. Patrick is a web of nerves in human flesh. Pete is elated. He floats on air as he walks. He sings a repetitive and off-key song whilst walking to the dance hall. Patrick adjusts the tie on the only dress clothes he owns. Patrick watches his friends as they walk. They all look odd to him. There isn't any dirt on their faces or clothes. Pete has his hair pushed back as if he were a suave millionaire instead of a nearly destitute canner. Joe and Andy are kempt types on a daily basis. Today, they have brought their A-game. Joe's coat brings out the color of his eyes. Andy has an award-winning smile on his face. They could easily be in a famous orchestra. 

The dance hall is a fairly large venue that borders a grocer and a bank. The ceiling is ornate and rises far above their heads. Elegant windows allow the starry sky to trickle into the lit hall. People of all ages, shapes, and sizes dance wildly in the center of the room. Some sit at small tables toward the back of the room. Instruments for every member of the band and then some sit on an elevated stage. The first to greet the band is Margaret. She engulfs Patrick into a light hug. He notes the light smell of women's perfume and lilies. She pulls away and exchanges firm handshakes with Joe and Andy. She pauses at Pete. Pete extends his hand to receive a handshake. Margaret gives him a half-hearted smile and turns back to Patrick. Pete drops his hand. His smile drops for a moment. As soon as Patrick looks back to him, he plasters his smile back onto his face. Margaret leads Patrick by the hand to the stage with the rest of the band. They move the instruments the band won’t use. Remaining is a string bass, drums, a guitar, a piano, and a small trumpet. Pete stands behind the bass. Andy sits at the drums. Joe grabs the guitar. Patrick sits nervously at the piano. 

The band starts off with a few cover songs they know by heart. All the awkwardness of before fades away when the band begins to play. Everyone in the dance hall dances carefree to the covers the band plays. The first few don't have lyrics. Patrick fights through his sea of nerves to play the next song, one with lyrics. He opens his mouth and sings as loud as he can muster. The dancing pauses for a moment as he sings. He keeps his eyes focused on the keys. If he can't see the crowd, they aren't really there. Are they? As the song continues, Patrick straightens his back and takes one daring glare into the audience. Not one has thrown a tomato yet. Some have started dancing again. Others stand still taking in every word Patrick sings. 

The final song is the one Pete wrote. Every member of the band is visibly shaking. They all steady their hands on their instruments and play. The audience slows their dancing at first. They watch the band, unsure what to think. The song is brand new. The band is too. Patrick pours his heart into Pete’s words. Slowly, everyone gets into the melody. The rhythm flows through their bodies and they dance. A rush of adrenaline flows through Patrick's veins. His nerves haven't cooled. It's a rush that makes him desperately want to vomit. The song comes to a close and the rush wears off. it leaves Patrick elated and relieved. 

Margaret comes to talk to Patrick after the show. They both take a seat at a table in the back of the hall. At first, everything she says is all praise. She has a goofy smile on her face and gestures wildly. Then, after a moment, she cools down. Patrick looks to his bandmates. Joe is talking to a man who walked up to him, Andy is downing a glass of water, and Pete is sitting at the edge of the stage. Margaret follows his gaze. She frowns. 

"I think the band would be better without him," she says. Her face scrunches. Patrick glances over each of his bandmates. Andy is the glue that keeps the band together and he's a great drummer. Joe is a good friend and guitarist. Pete is Pete. He's good and bad and odd. Each of them brings something special. Margaret continues to stare at his bandmates. 

"Without who?" Patrick asks. He turns away from his bandmates to look Margaret in the eye. "They're all talented and my best friends." 

Margaret points to Pete. "Him. He makes your band look bad." 

Patrick tenses. "How? I'll admit, he's not the best string bassist but he's a good songwriter. One of the best I've ever met." 

Margaret's smile falters. 

"He's not like the rest of you." 

"Not like the rest of us?" Patrick wonders aloud. "He's from Chicago, he's a factory worker, and he's around my age. What are you saying?" 

Andy and Joe notice the tension between Margaret and Patrick. They watch them carefully. Pete glances up. Margaret notices the new pairs of eyes watching her. Her smile has cracked completely. 

"By God, Patrick!" she exclaims. "He's mixed. He's not like us. He's- God, a betrayal." 

Andy and Joe walk over to the table. Andy is usually calm but now, he can't help clenching his fists. Pete walks out of the building. Patrick rises from his seat. 

"A betrayal of what? Bullshit racial divides? You can do whatever you want," -Patrick moves towards the door- "But don't tell me who I can or can't have in my band. Or who other people can or can't love. I'll still be friends with Pete. He will still be my bandmate. You stay away from me, got it?" 

Patrick rushes towards the door. Joe follows him out. Andy stays behind for a moment. 

"Don't bother paying us," he seethes. "We don't want your or your daddy's money." He throws his glass of water at Margaret. The water splashes all over her dress and face. Her makeup runs with a pitiful mix of tears and ice cold water. 

Andy meets Patrick, Joe, and Pete outside the dance hall. Patrick is ranting and raving loudly. 

"We should've- ugh!" Patrick shouts. "There were signs! So many signs! We should've left the second she wouldn't let Pete shake her hand. I didn't want to assume anything. I should've- Pete, I'm sorry." 

Pete shrugs. 

"You're not mad?" Patrick asks, surprised. 

Pete sighs. "Yeah, I'm mad. I guess. It doesn't matter how I feel. Let's go." 

Pete storms off down the road with his hands in his pocket. Patrick shoots a confused look to Andy and Joe. 

"I don't know," admits Andy. "I'm at a loss." 

Joe runs a hand through his hair. "He's used to it. This happened a lot more when we were kids. He feels powerless, I imagine. I can't put myself in his shoes. I can't imagine what it feels like to be called all those names. To be treated like nothing." 

Andy, Joe, and Patrick remain silent for the rest of the walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so much longer than I meant to make this chapter. This might be the longest chapter of anything I've ever written. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this. I hope to see you all in the next chapter. 
> 
> \- Mikayla


End file.
